


Sensate

by katiebour



Series: Sensate [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindness, Caretaking, Deaf Character, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Homosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the k!meme:<br/><i>I remember a one night I had a case of flash blindness, the idea of losing my sight even in just one eye pretty much terrified me. I would have undoubtedly become hysterical, if it had not been for my left eye, which could still see. Which is where I got this prompt.</i></p><p><i>So sequences of events leaves Anders blind and deaf. Hawke unwilling to leave Anders alone at his vulnerable state. Coerces Fenris to take care of the mage while Hawke leaves Kirkwall with a few of their companions to seek out the cure. Or vice versa, where it is Fenris who becomes blind and deaf, and Anders is the one who takes care of him.</i></p><p><i>If it's Fenris that is left blind and deaf and unwittingly ends up relying on Anders. And how Fenris would react once he learns it was Anders who cared for him in this vulnerable state? Instead of whoever he thought was caring for him. Would he defend Anders against the templars who would seek to bring the mage to the Gallows or not.</i></p><p><i>OP would love a toppy Fenris and a gentle Anders and she would die for hot loving between the two and a happy Fenders ending.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris sat in his room at the top of the stairs, bottle in hand, staring idly into the embers of the fireplace.  He still wasn't certain what to do with himself- after years and years of running, hiding, planning, fighting, to sit in front of a crackling fire, slightly drunk, in solitude and quiet... it was a luxury he could never have imagined even a year before.

Danarius would come, or he would not, and Fenris would live, or he would not.  He was beyond worrying about such things- whatever would happen, would happen, and he'd spent enough time on regrets and nightmares and fear.  For now, he simply sat in front of the fireplace, tracing a finger idly on the smooth glass of the bottle, content, as the Qunari would say, simply to be.

When the alcohol wore off, the insistent pulse of the markings, in time with his heartbeat, every moment marked with the otherworldly sensation of the lyrium's connection to the Fade, Fenris grimaced.  It was like filth crawling on his skin, in his skin, and even after six years he'd yet to grow accustomed to it.  In Danarius' service he'd borne it without a word or gesture, knowing that whether he _liked_ it or not was completely immaterial.  He was a thing, a weapon, and one did not ask a sword whether or not the carved hilt or runes suited it.  One simply kept a weapon in condition, used it, and when it was broken repaired or discarded it.

A weapon did not complain- because after all, a weapon was easily replaced.

In his three years on the run, Fenris had learned, slowly, that there were things he _liked_ and things he did _not_ \- it was no longer a matter of what his Master wished.  The freedom to act on these likes and dislikes- something as simple as ordering a meat pie instead of the detestable fish stew at a seaside inn, or to sleep late into the day and stay awake late into the night- these freedoms made him giddy, sometimes, so many _choices_ in a wide, wide world, spread out for him like an unimaginable bouquet of experiences and preferences.

He did not enjoy the flicker of that other world beneath his skin, the reminder in every conscious moment that he was bound between two realities, no longer a simple slave or even a man but an abomination.

The mage prickled and glared whenever Fenris named him such- what the mage failed to realize, however, was that Fenris considered himself as much monster as the other.  He knew what he was, what he was capable of, and the fact that he drew on the Fade as surely as any mage merely confirmed in his mind that he was irrevocably tainted by magic, a cursed creature bound in lines of ink and lyrium.

The crawling sensation was growing stronger, the pulse, the song, the otherworldly call mixed with the faint, constant pain of his body attempting and failing, as always, to reject the foreign material.

Fenris sat up and set the empty bottle to the side.  As entertaining as it had been to dash one against his wall, the small outward show of defiance impressing and amusing Hawke, he actually preferred to keep them, rinsing them with water and setting them in the windowsill or before the fire, gleaming in the light, the different tints of glass a humble art all their own.

As that damnable song grew stronger, Fenris growled and headed down to the wine cellars.  With enough wine, he could dull the sound, the sensation, could forget who and what and where he was and simply _be_.

His eyes fell on a small, dusty bottle alone on a rack- it was of a slightly different shape than the others, with a long, sinuous neck, the blue glass tempting him.  Whatever odd vintage it was, it would no doubt do the trick, and he was looking forward to setting the bottle in the window, clean and empty and bright, watching the sapphire glass sparkle when he woke.

He took up the bottle and returned to the fireplace, peeling off the wax and uncorking it.

His brow furrowed as the scent of the wine wafted up- it was _strong_ , smelling faintly floral.  Not unpleasant, just- different.  Unlike the other vintages it seemed to be more of a cordial than a wine, pressed perhaps from a berry instead of a grape.

He shrugged.  It was alcoholic- it would do.

The first sip fell over his tongue like an unusual bouquet- almost as if he could feel, hear, see it in addition to smelling and tasting it.  It was like having a whole other set of senses, and immediately intoxicating.

He turned the bottle around to peer at the label, but- no.  There was nothing depicted that would give him a clue, no florid illustrations.  It was simply script, that damnable script that taunted him, shamed him.

He took another drink, letting the alcohol move through him.  It was _good_ , and he found a small smile on his lips, uncharacteristically happy as the fire crackled and wavered into a beautiful rainbow of colors before his eyes.

Was it his bottles?  Was it the cascade of glass, and color, and firelight?  He grinned and took another deep drink.  So beautiful, lines wavering, colors blending and weaving-

Something deep, deep inside began to pace- this was wrong, it was unnatural, there was something _wrong_ with the wine-

But he pushed that feeling away, because the colors were so beautiful, joined by the soft call of the lyrium song that pulsed in his veins, intensifying with each drink, and when it was gone, to the last drop, he rolled to the floor, the cold, hard stone bathing his exposed skin in sensation, the colors of the room sliding sinuously back and forth, the flicker of the shadows on the ceiling entrancing, the lyrium call singing, and singing, and singing, the colors bright even when he closed his eyes, and he curled around his bottle, the beautiful sapphire bottle, and let himself be consumed by song and color and light.

****************************************************************

He woke in darkness and silence to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, muscles sore and the cold stone floor hard beneath him.  He opened his eyes, but it was dark, pitch dark- the fire went out, perhaps, but there was no moonlight, no stars through his window.

Why didn't they speak, this person shaking his shoulder, and how was it they'd found him, on the floor, in darkness so black he could not see.  He opened his mouth, and asked, _Who are you_ , and felt a tendril of fear.

He had spoken, hadn't he?

But he'd been completely unable to hear his own voice, so perhaps he'd only thought it, in this darkness, this silence, and he brought a hand to his throat, asked again, and felt the vibrations.

Yes, he spoke.

 _But he could not hear_.

I cannot hear.  Had he spoken it, whispered it, shouted it, whimpered it?  Unbidden, his hand went up to his eyes, and when he realized they were open, perfectly open, but it was dark, so dark-

I cannot see- he whispered, or at least thought he did, the hand on his shoulder still, then arms were pulling him up, and he stumbled, beginning to tremble, hands out, in fear, and there was armor, cold metal, his hands fumbling, there was a hand, up, up, a face, a beard-

Garrett?

The hand took his, warm and dry, and patted, and it was Garrett, it had to be, but he couldn't see, couldn't hear, and when the hand pulled him, led him stumbling and fearful and trembling, until he bumped into something at knee-level.  He sat, and it was soft, the bed, his bed, but he couldn't see, the worn coverlet twisted in his hand, and it could be any coverlet, any cloth, and if Danarius came for him now, he was helpless, alone-

He fought against the panic that rose up, trembling.

 _I have to tell him.  What happened?  How did this-_

The wine.  It must have been the wine.

He forced himself to speak, or at least he thought he did, and was he whispering, or screaming, were the words intelligible?

 _Blue bottle, I drank it, odd taste but I wanted to forget about the markings, and there was color, and light-_

The hand patted him again, then released him, faint vibrations- were those footsteps?  Was Hawke leaving?  Was he leaving him _alone_ like this?

Mouth open, he moaned in fear, or screamed, or whimpered, he didn't know, the fear rising and rising.

 _Don't leave me,_ he tried to say, and then the vibrations were back, closer-

A hand touched him again and he jerked in fear- it could be anyone, really, Danarius, or Hadriana, or the guard-

The hand grabbed his hand, put it over smooth glass, and Fenris felt the odd, smooth curvature of the small bottle he'd drunk last night.

 _Yes, yes, blue sapphire glass_ , he tried to say, _tasted like berries and flowers, odd, strong, Creatore, concedoeve el praesidio eid-_

The words fell from his lips, or at least he thought they did, _Maker, grant your protection unto me,_ and whether He heard, or whether He was gone, or blind and deaf to such a plea, Fenris wasn't sure.

Hands pushed him down onto the bed, smoothing comfortingly over his arm, and then the weight dropped away as Hawke stood, the vibration of his feet moving away-

Another set of steps moved forward, another weight pressed on the bed, scent of salt and sea and woman and musk, and when his hand found a bare thigh he jerked back as if burned.  Isabela.

Small, callused hands took his, patted him, put them on soft skin- jaw, a face?  and there was an ear, her earrings, large, round disks, the coarseness of her hair, the cloth of her headwrap, thank the Maker it was Isabela.

She grabbed his hand and put it on one full, firm breast, and then he _knew_ it was Isabela, felt the vibrations of her laughter before he jerked his hand away, _Isabela_ , he tried to say, mingled relief and embarrassment and censure in his voice.

She sat and held his hand, and he relaxed, knowing that he was among friends, and that he was safe, and that they would help him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is grouchy!Red!Hammer!Hawke, by the way.

Garrett ran to Darktown as fast as he could, dropping to a walk when he was too out of breath, then breaking into a run.   _Damn, damn, damn,_ he thought, _some sort of poison, DAMN that elf and his propensity to drink anything and everything.  I don't have bloody TIME for this, right when we're about to leave for the Deep Roads-_

He pounded on the door of the clinic.  "Anders!" he yelled.  "Open the fucking door!"

He heard footsteps from the other side, bolt slid back, and then the door opened, revealing a bare-chested Anders rubbing his eyes.  "Garrett?" he said, in a voice roughened by sleep, "weren't you leaving for the Deep Roads today?"

Garrett ground his teeth.  "We _were_ ," he said, "until I found Fenris on his floor.  He seems to have drunk some sort of poisoned wine- he can't see or hear us."

Anders' eyes widened.  "He's blind and deaf?"

Garrett nodded.  "I'd have brought him here, but he seems to be terrified, not that I can blame him, poor sod.  Isabela's staying with him for now.  Can you come and have a look?"

Anders was already walking back into the clinic, pulling a worn linen shirt on, then sliding into his coat.  He quickly folded and tied his footwraps before pulling on and buckling his boots, then began to walk around his clinic, pulling things from the shelves.

Garrett tapped his foot impatiently while Anders gathered up a small kit, putting vials, ointments, and instruments into a small knapsack.  Once he had everything he wanted, he hefted the pack over his shoulder, picked up his staff, and nodded.  "Lead on," he said, and the two of them walked quickly back to Hightown.

*****************************************************************

Fenris wasn't sure how long he lay there, Isabela holding his hand and stroking his hair, but then he felt the vibration of footsteps, closer, and then the smell of elfroot, spindleweed, musk, and Isabela gave him a pat before standing up, stepping away into the nothingness that existed beyond his bed.  Then that scent came closer, another, heavier weight on the bed, and a larger pair of hands were cradling his jaw, turning him.  One hand moved to rest on his forehead, a thumb gently pulling the skin of his eyelid upward, for a moment, then moving to feel the beat of his heart through the vein on his neck.

A warmth came closer, breath tinged with the scent of mint leaves, hands pulling his jaw down, mouth open, and as he breathed in and out the warmth lingered, looking for some sign, some clue.  He reached out a hand, tentatively, and felt the warmth resolve into a face, a curved jaw, the rasp of stubble under his fingers.   _Mage_ , he said, or thought he did, and the hand came up to hold his hand to that jaw, and he felt the movement of an unmistakable nod, twice, before the hand released him.

*****************************************************************

Anders looked over at Hawke.  "He seems to be fine, for the most part.  No fever, no dilation of his pupils, no sweating or muscle paralysis- his heart's beating a bit fast but I'd guess that's mostly fear.  Do you have a sample of what he drank?"

Isabela handed him the odd blue bottle, and Anders held it up and sniffed, nose wrinkling almost immediately.  " _Fuck_ ," he said, with feeling.

Garrett looked at him impatiently.  "Well?"

Anders sighed.  "Ever hear of Lunatic's Deathroot?"

Garrett rolled his eyes.  "Do I look like a fountain of knowledge?"

Anders sighed.  "Right.  Well, in herbalism classes they told us the story of a Tevinter courtesan named Melusine who harvested a bunch of the stuff and baked it into pies for an unlucky Magister and his guests.  I suppose he'd spurned her advances or somesuch.  In any case, the stuff is highly hallucinogenic, and the guests lost their minds and tore each other to pieces."

Garrett frowned.  "Are you saying he's gone mad?"

Anders shrugged.  "I recognize the scent- it has these fleshy red pods that contain the extract.  It can be used as a poison or a drug, and has the advantage of remaining in the system for weeks.  I'd guess that this particular vintage-" he hefted the bottle- "was something 'special' for any guests of the previous owner who displeased him.  Normally you'd expect to see and hear strange things, but given that he drank the whole bottle-"

Garrett groaned.  "Is it permanent?"

Anders shook his head.  "It should filter out of his system in a few weeks, but until then-"

Garrett gritted his teeth.  "Fine."  He flipped a few sovereigns in Anders' direction.  "I can't sit around and wait for him- Bartrand is expecting us.  I'll just take Merrill in Fenris' place.  Watch him for me until he gets better or until we're back."

Anders' head whipped up.  "Garrett, I have a clinic to run, patients-"

Garrett shook his head.  "Anders, I will see to it that your clinic is funded for the next few _years_ when we get back- you won't lack for bandages and flasks and whatnot, but I need you to watch him."

Anders interrupted.  "Couldn't we get someone else?  Lirene might be able to help us-"

Garrett rounded on him.  "Fenris is a _friend_ ," he said, ominously, "but he's also bloody dangerous.  I don't want him hurt, but neither do I want him ripping some stranger in half or pulling their heart out in a panic.  You, at least, can defend yourself if he loses it."  

He advanced toward the apostate, irritation on every feature, and said, "I don''t care whether or not you like him- as a friend and a healer you _will_ look after him.  I've given you more than enough money to see the both of you taken care of for the next two _months_ at least, and whatever you don't use in his care you can put towards the clinic.  'Bela-" he snapped out, and she turned to eye him with a sultry glance.  "Let's not keep Bartrand waiting."

Anders watched them go, then turned to look at the elf clinging to his hand for dear life, emerald eyes wide and sightless.  "Right," he sighed.

*****************************************************************

"Come on," he said, pulling Fenris to a sitting position.  Even knowing that he couldn't hear, it felt discourteous not to speak to him.  "Let's see to the necessities first."  He pulled out the ubiquitous enameled chamberpot from under the bed- he'd seen that particular grimace, coupled with the uncomfortable squirm, far too many times to count.  When he pressed the handle into the elf's hand, he saw the flush of embarrassment that crept into the elf's cheeks.

He released him and stepped back, waited.

"Mage," Fenris said, voice tinged with shame, "Please- turn away."

Anders stamped once on the floor, then walked away, waiting until the elf had finished.  He waited a few more moments for the elf to compose himself before he stomped again, then walked back, taking the pot and its contents.

 _The things I do for you,_ he thought, walking through the courtyard until he found the midden, freshly covered with a layer of crushed lime, and emptied the contents.  Stopping back at the outdoor pump, he rinsed the container and washed his hands before returning to Fenris' room.

The elf was still standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, and Anders crossed to him, taking his hand and putting it on the washed pot.  He then led Fenris back to the bed, where he pulled him down and showed that he was putting the pot back under the bed.

The elf nodded.  Once they returned to a standing position, Fenris said, quietly, "Thank you, mage."

His voice was uncertain, low, and rather than shouting like so many older, deaf people, he had instead grown even more quiet.

Anders nodded.   _We need some sort of system, something-_

He patted Fenris' hand, once.

Fenris' brow creased.  "I cannot hear you, mage-" he said, and Anders patted, once.   _Yes_.

The elf paused.  "Am I to remain like this permanently?" he asked, and Anders patted twice.   _No_.

"Is that- once for yes, twice for no?" Fenris asked.  Anders grinned.  "Smart elf," he answered, and patted once, _yes_.

Fenris' shoulders slumped in relief.  

Anders pulled him over to the bench and table, pulling the elf's hand to the familiar surface.  With a bit of pulling and pushing, the elf quickly understood, and sat.

 _He needs to eat- and so do I,_ Anders thought.  But how to leave him?

Anders looked around the room, and spied a small cup.  Grabbing it, he set it on the table, then looked around- the elf's belt was there, yes, and there was the pouch with his eating knife and fork-

Bringing all the utensils together, he set them on the table in front of Fenris, then moved the elf's hand over them.

"A cup," Fenris said, "And my eating knife- food?"

Anders patted once.   _Yes_.

"I take it you wish me to remain here," he said, after a moment, and Anders was glad that the elf grasped the immediate difficulty of taking him into the marketplace blind and deaf.  He patted once.   _Yes_.

Fenris swallowed, and Anders could see that without sight or hearing the elf couldn't maintain his usual mask of bravado or indifference.  The fear there was writ plain on his face, and Anders smoothed a hand over his shoulder, comfortingly.  "Very well, mage," he said, and Anders patted once, then turned and left.

*****************************************************************

Anders hurried to the Hightown market, buying a basket, and then filling it with fresh bread, cheese, and apples.  As he was passing through the market, a board caught his eye.  It was a simple child's game, two large depressions on either side, two rows of six smaller depressions in between them.  The small, multicolored glass pebbles shone in the polished wood.  Anders hadn't played Count-And-Capture for years, but it was a game widely known across Thedas-

He shrugged.  It'd give them some way to pass the time, in any case.  He haggled the price down to thirty silvers and placed the board and pouch with the pebbles into the basket.

With quick steps he hurried back to Fenris' mansion.   _I'd be terrified if I were in his place- probably best not to leave him alone for too long._

When Anders reached the top of the stairs he could have kicked himself- the elf's face was turned toward him, skin pale with fear, hands clenched on the table edge.  "Mage?" he called out, uncertainly, and Anders stomped quickly, once.  The relief spread plainly across the elf's face.  

He set his hand on Fenris' shoulder, felt the elf's fingers cover his, moving up to smooth over the fabric of his sleeve, fingers seeking until they found the feathers of his coat.

After a moment, he let go.  "I apologize," Fenris said, "I cannot help but think that someone else has found me, my old master, perhaps, and to be helpless before him-"

Anders patted him.  He'd known that kind of fear, back in the Circle, in solitary, never knowing who was coming down the steps, into the darkness, the clank of plate- it could be one of his jailors, the bored Templar with the bowl of gruel and the neutral expresson on his face, or it could be one of the others, the ones who smirked while they were unlocking the cell, and if he was good, they left him alone afterwards, if not-

Anders shook his head.  He _would_ not think about that.  It hadn't happened, as far as he was concerned.  It was done, over with, and that man was dead, and he was here, he and Justice, and it would never happen again.

Pulling out the food, he sliced everything with quick, economical movements, spreading a cloth before the elf and setting the sliced food on it.  Better to stick with foods eaten with the fingers or sipped from a bowl- using utensils might prove problematic for the elf.

When they were finished eating, Anders pulled out the board, grabbing Fenris' hand and placing it on the polished wooden surface.  The lyrium-lined fingers explored the surface, the elf's brow furrowed-

"Is this-" he paused, "I know not how to say it in trade tongue- _Kala_?  A game played with pebbles?"

Anders poured the small stones into his hand, then taking Fenris' hand, poured some into that lyrium-lined palm.

A small smile quirked at the side of the elf's mouth.  "I have not played this for years," he said, fingers fumbling to distribute two of each stone into the pockets.  

*****************************************************************

Anders sat back- they'd played several games, the elf beating him soundly despite being blind and deaf.  At least some of the stiffness had gone out of his shoulders.

Fenris cleared his throat, then grasped until he had Anders' hand in his.  "Mage," he said, "How long am I to remain in this state?  Hours?"

Anders patted twice.   _No_.

"Days?"

 _No_.

Fenris swallowed.  "Weeks?"

 _Yes_.

" _Malum_ ," the elf said, with feeling, and Anders nodded, patting once.   _Yes_.

"I will-" he swallowed, again, "require assistance."  Anders patted once.   _Yes_.

"I was to go with Hawke to the Deep Roads," he said, "Have they gone?"  Anders patted once.   _Yes_.

"And you are to look after me, I take it?"  Anders patted once.   _Yes_.

Fenris released his hand.  "I thank you, mage," he said, at last, and Anders nodded, reaching out with one finger to tap the elf's hand.

*****************************************************************

They settled into a routine in the first few days, Anders fetching food once or twice a day from the market, meals separated by games of Count-And-Capture or walks around the estate.  After a while Fenris seemed to grow used to navigating the mansion without sight, walking more confidently about the room or fumbling down the steps to the privy.  Boredom quickly set in, and when Fenris couldn't stand it any longer he'd spring up to pace up and down the hallways.

" _Venhedis_ , mage," he snarled on the fourth day, " _I must do something_."

Anders thought for a moment, then reached over and tapped the elf's wrist.   _Yes_.

Standing up, he gathered the dirty clothing strewn about the room, then turned and put the end of the strip of red fabric he'd tied to his belt into Fenris' hand.  The elf followed on the makeshift lead, and Anders was careful not to walk too quickly as he made his way down the stairs and out into the mansion's courtyard.  The front of the mansion faced the street, but like every other mansion in Hightown it had a small green space in the back, surrounded by hedges.  Anders dropped the clothes on the ground, then grabbed Fenris' shoulders and pressed, the sign they'd worked out for _wait_ , and went to fetch several wooden tubs from the kitchen.

Filling them with water from the outdoor pump, he heated the water in one with a spell, then pulled Fenris over.  He put the bar of rough soap in the elf's hand, then dumped the clothing in, pulling out a shirt and putting it into the elf's other hand.

Fenris grimaced.  "Laundry?" he groused, and Anders rapped him sharply once on the arm.

"Fine," the elf responded sourly, "Better than doing nothing, I suppose."  Anders led the elf to the second tub, dipping his hand in the cool, clean water- the temperature difference would clue him in as far as the washing and rinsing, and then walked him over to the laundry line stretched between two posts.

Without further communication, the two men took places on either side of the tub, scrubbing the clothes clean.

Anders had stripped off his coat, but he was getting warm, and in all honesty his own clothes needed a wash.

Nose wrinkled, he acknowledged that the elf's clothing probably could as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m assuming even though Fen can’t read, he can count. Also- Anders is slowly transforming from “mage” to a person with an actual name, at least in Fen’s mind. Even Fen can’t hold out forever :D

Fenris breathed in the fresh fall air with pleasure- he hadn't been outside in days, and being locked in the mansion as well as locked within a sightless, silent prison had weighed upon him.  

He still couldn't believe how quickly the mage had made this situation work- from stomps to taps to the strip of cloth that he'd apparently tied to his belt to lead Fenris around.  He hadn't liked the man at all, before, but were their situations reversed he doubted as to whether he'd have been half as resourceful.  

When the boredom had begun to chafe, he'd spoken- _I must do something,_ and Anders had pulled him outside, into the fresh air, and within a short period of time had shoved his hands into water- wet cloth? and when the bar of soap had been pressed into his hand, he'd understood.  

He nearly laughed at the thought of doing laundry in the dark, but he supposed the truly blind did it all the time.  Maker knew after days of learning the mansion by touch and carefully counted steps, of playing _Kala_ by skimming his hand over the smooth wood of the board, stirring the little pebbles with a finger, laundry was simply one more task to be accomplished in the silence and darkness of his mind.

After being led from tub to tub, and from tub to line by the mage, he took his place back by the warm, soapy water, and gripping cloth in his hand began to soap and scrub.  Once he'd made sure to soap the garment thoroughly- _a shirt_ , he realized, feeling the shape of the cloth, noting the location of the holes.  Rubbing a finger over the cloth, he recognized the rough texture of cheap linen- one of the mage's shirts, then.  After he scrubbed the garment against itself, his hands remembering his childhood task even if he didn't have his sight, he reached out a hand and found the second barrel.  He dropped the shirt in the cool water and swirled it around, feeling carefully that the soap was rinsed completely.  Pulling the garment out, he wrung the water from it with a few quick twists, then began the counting process that had started to become second nature.

 _It was nine steps to the line-_ he held out one hand, and stepped carefully, feeling with the soles of his feet for obstructions, rocks, anything that would cause him to trip-

 _One, two, three..._

He counted to himself, and when he reached nine he moved his hand slowly- there.  There was the pole.  Guiding his hand to the line, he unrolled the shirt, pulling it to hang carefully, then feeling around... surely there were pins somewhere-

When his hand closed over a wooden pin, then another, he unclasped them before returning to the shirt, pinning it securely in place.  He grinned to himself- it was a small, foolish thing, but the return of some small measure of independence was thrilling.  He turned and began to count, walking carefully-

 _One, two, three..._

After a few more garments, he felt a movement of air, smelled the familiar scent of herbs and musk that he'd quickly come to call _Anders_ , and felt the tug of a hand on his vest.

 _What?_

Warm, callused hands clasped his, moved them to the toggles of his vest, then to the hem of his vest, then to the water.  The meaning was unmistakable.  The mage was right, of course, their clothes needed to be washed, and in all honesty Fenris was longing to wash the grime of several days from his body, but-

He was blind, but Anders was not.  He felt a small flush creep up his neck.  

 _No,_ he protested.   _I'll change once these are clean and dry._

He felt a huff of breath on his skin from the man who stood close by, and the tug came again, and then a tap on his wrist, twice.   _No,_ the mage said.

Fenris grimaced, ready to argue the point, but suddenly he felt movement close to his face, fingers pinching his nose, and he jerked back with a growl.

 _Mage,_ he sputtered, _I am not the only one whose scent leaves something to be desired._

It was a lie, of course- Anders' scent was comforting, familiar, and one of the few ways he could recognize the man without running hands over him.  It was also, Fenris admitted to himself, a scent he'd grown to like, a scent that made him want to roll around in it like a cat in a patch of catmint.  Odd, but there it was.  Not that he'd ever tell the mage.

The strong hand pulled his hand to another garment, that same rough linen, and then he felt movement as Anders stripped it off, and then his hand was placed on a bare arm, skin smooth, with a light dusting of hair.  A bit of water splashed over the skin, and then soapy fingers rubbed the patch of skin, moving over his own fingers.  The mage's message was unmistakeable- _I'm washing my clothes, and taking a bath as well, see?_

Fenris pulled his hand back like it was on fire.   _Mage-_ he said, warningly-

Impatient hands were suddenly at his neck, undoing the toggles on his shirt, and when he put out a hand to push him away, his palm found bare skin, curved with the contours of the Anders' torso, a sprinkling of springy hair-

Fenris pulled his hand away and cursed.   _Stop, mage-_

He felt a splash of water, and then the hand tapped his arm with determination.   _No._

 _Fine_ , he said through gritted teeth, and with fumbling fingers quickly stripped off his tunic.  The man was a healer- he'd seen bodies before, he wasn't staring, surely-

Fenris tossed his clothes in the tub and began to scrub.  Best to put all of those thoughts out of his mind- if the mage _was_ staring there was nothing he could do about it.

The movement of water in the barrel suggested Anders was washing his clothes, or himself, and Fenris applied himself to the task at hand, hesitating only once all the clothes were washed and hung.  Unable to put it off any longer, he stripped out of his breeches, washed, rinsed and hung them quickly, trying not to think about his possible audience.

 _The entire City Guard could be watching, for all I'd know._   But he trusted the mage.

He wetted down his body quickly, soaped everywhere he could reach, then rinsed- this, at least was familiar.  He'd washed every day back in Tevinter, as quickly as possible, with soap and a small bucket of water.

Warmth, then fingers on his arm, and he startled-

Anders turned him around and he felt the soap on his back, washing and rinsing the spots he couldn't reach himself, and there was nothing but clinical kindness in that touch, no gropes or accidental slides of fingers across wet flesh- nothing but the man who'd cared for him for days washing him.

He felt the mage's hands leave, then cupped water was spilled over his back, washing away the soap and dirt, and then a gentle hand on his neck bent him toward the basin, poured water over his hair-

He wanted to purr when strong fingers worked the soap through his scalp, squeezing his eyes shut as water and soap dripped down, and when he was steered towards the second basin, those hands carefully rinsing every bit of soap from his hair, pouring cupped handfuls of water over his head and neck-

Anders tapped him once on the arm, _Yes_ , and putting his hand on the mage's forearm, he allowed himself to be carefully led back inside.

The mage led him up the stairs, steered him towards the bed, and Fenris gratefully took the hint, climbing in and wrapping himself in the blankets.  It would do until the clothes dried.

He felt a finger brush over his eyebrow- _Sleep_ , from Anders, and he nodded.  He'd been napping a lot in the past few days- it relieved the tedium of his own mind, the trap of darkness and silence, and so he turned on his side, facing the wall, and tried to sleep.

In the back of his mind, he couldn't help remembering strong hands, soaping his hair, the feel of a muscled chest under his palm, the soft sprinkle of hair- his mind painted it red-gold, same as the mage's locks, even though he'd never seen the man shirtless, and likely never would-

And he wondered, as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, if Anders had been watching him, eyes roaming over the lines that traced his body, if the mage had been equally bare, nude in the sunshine, rinsing his hair with those strong, gentle hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- to Fen’s last two questions, I say undoubtedly _yes_ to both. XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm borrowing shamelessly from one of my other fics, _The Demon You Know,_ because in my headcanon, regardless of circumstance, Fen was victim to some pretty horrific treatment.  Nightmare taken word for word from said fic.  But hey, I can steal it, because it's mine, right?  :D

_A week later-_

Fenris woke to darkness, the same darkness he'd been in for the last week and a half, trapped in a tangle of blankets, heart hammering madly-

 _It ends, it always ends, then it begins again, and again, worse than before, until he is screaming, begging, tears and blood and sex and that damnable_ laughter _as they take him, force him, and nothing matters, an agony of endless time as he is held, restrained and taken, his body betraying him, and it is they who have done this, who will always do this, because he is the perfect plaything for a mage, and he wants to kill them all, bathe in their blood and rip their hearts from their bleeding corpses, and he will, someday, they will slip, he will be free, and then they will_ pay-

He moaned in fear, anger- and froze.  A sound?

Another sound, a voice, far-away, quiet, indistinct, _Eeh-ih?_

"Mage?" he said, and nearly bit his tongue as the faintest, indistinct echo of his own voice returned to him.

And then, the darkness parted, and he couldn't see anything, blurry shapes and shadow- but he saw _light_ , felt the tug of magic along his tattoos that confirmed that the mage had called a ball of light, and he could _see_ it-

It wasn't until a thumb stroked across his cheek that he realized he was crying, repeating over and over and over-

"I can hear.  I can see.  I can hear-"

*****************************************************************

When morning came, Anders confirmed that both Fenris' hearing and sight were returning.  The light taps still served as a reminder, a guide, since Fenris couldn't make out any of the sounds distinctly, and could see nothing except for gradations of color and light, but _minus malum_ , he could _see_ again, could _hear_ again-

The next few days passed in a blur, Fenris' sight returning fully within two days.  His hearing remained stubbornly indistinct, but through their system of yes-and-no, Anders confirmed that it, too, would return completely within days.

Fenris found himself in the odd position of being able to see his caretaker but not hear him, and the flush of shame when the mage had scrawled out a note and handed it to Fenris had taken him by surprise.  Why should he care that the mage thought him stupid, unable to read?

Anders had stared with a look of disbelief.  "You think they teach slaves to read?" Fenris had said, tiredly, and Anders stared back, in shock.  Of course, the mage had spent most of his life surrounded by books and people who could read- no doubt he simply assumed that such a thing was universal.  Fenris gritted his teeth.  One more luxury of life in the Circle that the mage wasn't even _aware_ of.

Towards midday, Anders had pulled on his coat and gestured to Fenris, _Come on_ , and although Fenris no longer required the mage's care, he found himself strangely loath to be alone.  Strapping on armor and greatsword with relish- he had _missed_ the safety of his armor- he followed behind the mage.

They walked quickly to Darktown, and once Anders had unbarred the door, brow furrowed as he channeled force magic to move the bolt within, they walked into the quiet, deserted clinic.  A bit of dust had gathered in Anders' absence, but as soon as the mage lit the lantern, people began to gather.

Anders pulled Fenris over to a small table, then pulled down a plank, a knife, and a fresh bit of elfroot he'd found growing in Darktown.  He chopped it for a few moments with easy expertise, then handed the knife to Fenris, repeating the chopping motions.

Fenris nodded, and Anders turned to treat the first of the patients that trickled in.

The warrior spent most of the day chopping herbage or stirring pots of salve, watching discreetly as the mage healed one patient after another- a small child with a scraped knee, a woman with a badly infected cut on her arm, a man with a stab wound, another woman going into labor.  Anders maintained his clinical calm and determination, moving from one person to the next, a pot of salve here, a bandaged wound there, a touch of healing magic for this one, then back to the woman on the table to stroke her forehead and murmur encouraging words as she moaned and screamed at intervals, tightly clutching her husband's hand through contractions.

And when her time came, he'd had hot water and a knife for the cord, clean string and clean cloths at the ready, catching the bloody, wailing infant in his hands, wiping off the worst of the gore and thumping the child's feet to encourage his lusty wails.  He'd cut and tied the cord off with efficacy borne of long practice, wrapped him in a blanket, and handed the babe to his father before turning back to the mother to deal with the afterbirth.

Fenris had never seen a child borne, would have been helpless before such a scene, and the mage juggled it all with seven other patients as though it was nothing.

Fenris chopped and stirred and wrapped clean bandages into rolls, admitting reluctant admiration for the expertise so clearly on display.  Whatever else he was, Anders was an excellent healer, and Fenris shook his head as the mage refused all of the meagre coin he was offered.  Of course, the people of Darktown looked after their own, it was clear, and ragged handfuls of spindleweed and elfroot appeared at various times, a basket full of scavenged candle stubs which the mage quickly melted down into liquid wax, skimmed out the wicks and ash, then combined with oil and the herbs Fenris had chopped before setting the pot over the firepit.  

Fenris was set to stir the mixture while the mage set a broken bone, the child's face alternately red and pale with pain as the healer navigated the broken bone back into place before applying magic.  Fenris was simply glad that he could only hear the faintest of the child's screams.

At midday Fenris stopped to eat some of the bread and cheese one of the Darktowners had brought, watching as Anders examined the mouth of a young woman whose jaw was nearly swollen to double its normal size.  He said something indistinct, and the girl nodded, tearfully.  The mage doubled up a blanket into a small pillow, invited the girl with a gesture to lay down, and with a gesture and a word he _pulled_ -

Fenris felt the faint tingle of the Fade slide along his markings like a caress, and a moment later the girl was asleep.

When Anders retrieved a handful of metal instruments, dipping them in boiling water before cooling them with a touch of Winter's Grasp, Fenris shuddered.  He was going to take out a tooth with _those?_

He turned his back on the tableaux, glance falling on the mage's folded coat.  That little strip of cloth- _red_ , he noticed, was still tied on, and without thinking too deeply about it he quickly, furtively untied it, tucking it into a pouch of his own belt.  It was a memento, a reminder of one mage in the whole of his experience who had healed rather than harmed.  When he'd finished eating, he browsed through the leaves of an open book on the table, the words meaningless squiggles but the pictures well-drawn.  He recognized most of the plants he'd been handling over the course of the day- yes, there was the one with spiky leaves, and there was the red blossom-

He startled at a light touch on his shoulder, and turned to see Anders behind him, drying freshly washed hands on a clean cloth.

The mage took the book from him, turning the page rapidly to an illustration of a plant with purple flowers, bright red pods, and a thin stalk.  He pointed at that, then mimed drinking, before reaching out a hand to touch Fenris' brow, then his ear.

"So this was in the wine?" Fenris confirmed, and Anders nodded.  The mage stared hard at him, then grabbed an empty flask from a shelf, pointing to a location a third of the way up, half the way up, and nodding, then pointing at the top of the flask with a frown.

Fenris felt a reluctant smile come over his face.  "Are you telling me not to drink the entire bottle next time?"

Anders nodded, replacing the flask on the shelf.  Fenris didn't quite know why, but he felt as though he needed to explain:

"My markings," he said, and the mage turned to look at him, "I can feel them, always.  There is some pain; Danarius once told me it was because my body is constantly attempting to remove the lyrium, and failing."

Anders' eyes widened.

"Also," Fenris continued, "I can feel the Fade.  It sings, and calls.  It is- unsettling.  But when I drink enough, it quiets..."

He looked away from the brown eyes regarding him with sympathy.  "I should go," he said, shortly.  "I thank you for your care."

He picked up his sword and replaced it in its baldric on his back, speaking the words he could not say to the mage's face.  "I was- mistaken in my estimation of you.  I apologize."

He felt a hand on his arm and flushed.  "I-I must go."  Fenris strode out of the clinic and returned to his mansion, full of disquiet.

That night, he curled up on his bed, eyes flickering from the glass bottles reflecting the firelight, to the colored glass stones of the _Kala_ set that sat on the hearth.

He fell asleep to the faint scent of elfroot and spindleweed on his hands, both comforted and strangely lonely at the same time.

*****************************************************************

 _Three days later-_

Fenris was sitting at his table, idly dropping the colored stones of the _Kala_ set from one depression from the next, wondering if perhaps the mage would be interested in another game- he could give him some pointers, perhaps-

A knock sounded at the front door.

"Fenris?" a voice called from outside, and he started- _think of the devil and he appears_.  He heard the door being pushed open, heard the mage call his name again.

"Up here," he answered, and listened with pleasure to every step on the stairs.  

"I see your hearing has returned," Anders said from the doorway, watching the elf who sat at the table, lyrium-lined fingers idly stirring glass pebbles.

"Indeed," Fenris said, and the mage glanced at the game, then back at him, uncertainly.

Fenris gestured to the seat across from him.  "Care for a rematch?" he offered casually.

Anders grimaced.  "You know I'm a terrible player," he replied.

Fenris dropped three stones in the larger depression across from him.  "I'll give you a starting advantage," he said, then stood up.  "Would your spirit allow you a glass of wine, perhaps?"

Anders snickered at him.  "As long as it's not laced with hallucinogenic deathroot- possibly."

Fenris went to the wine cellar and brought up a dusty bottle, handing it over to the mage for inspection.  "Nevarran red," Anders said, "probably no deathroot.  Although with Nevarrans I suppose there could always be dragon's blood-"

Fenris took the bottle from him and removed the wax seal and cork, and settling back onto the bench took a pull from the bottle before handling it to the mage.

The mage looked momentarily at the bottle, paused, then took a drink.  "So, starting advantage?" he said, dropping one more pebble into the cup on his side.

"Don't press your luck, mage," Fenris replied with a raised eyebrow, and the man smirked at him.

Hours later, they had finished the bottle, Anders hopelessly tipsy, head on the table.

Fenris watched him, admiring the play of candlelight over the red-gold hair.  "But surely, you could accept payment when it is offered," he argued.

Anders shook his head.  "No," he said, "They can't afford it.  And I don't need it, really- what would I buy?  A present for my pet spirit?"  He giggled.

"And what presents does your spirit prefer?" Fenris snickered.  "Ribbons for your hair, perhaps, or a box of sweets?"

"Oh, no," Anders said, giving him a look before standing unsteadily, then moving to Fenris' side of the bench.  The warrior moved over to make room, not sure why the mage wanted to sit next to him, but then there was that _scent_ , musk and elfroot and spindleweed, and he simply sat.

"Justice-" Anders hiccuped- "You know, that wine was a bit stronger than I expected... Justice doesn't like hair ribbons, or sweets."  He giggled.

"What, then?" Fenris said lazily.  His eyes widened when the mage turned to him, a callused hand clasping his jaw, and Anders was moving closer-

"Lyrium," Anders said, breath warm against Fenris' lips, brown eyes locked on shocked emerald, "Justice likes lyrium."

Fenris couldn't help the small sound from the back of his throat, and then the mage was kissing him, hands smoothing into his hair, pulling him closer.  "Anders," he whispered, clinging to the mage's coat.  The man stilled, pulling in a breath, waiting, Fenris realized, to be pushed away, told to go-

Fenris kissed him, full of desperation, licking that delectable, pouty lower lip, and felt the man tremble in his grasp.

When they broke the kiss, the mage was panting, amber eyes opening to find that he was being watched, Fenris tracing a hand over that curved jaw, the rasp of stubble, brushing a stray wisp of red-gold hair.

"Fenris?" he said in a small voice.

"I cannot stop _thinking_ about you," Fenris said roughly, and the mage whimpered.

"Take off your coat," he ordered, and Anders sat up, hands fumbling with buckles, laying it over the table.  "Boots," he ordered, and the mage bent to unfasten his boots, pulling them off, unwrapping his footwraps, setting them aside.

Fenris moved closer, pulling the mage's coarse linen shirt out of his breeches, running lyrium lined palms underneath, up that warm expanse of skin, the curvature of his chest, the pebbling of a nipple, that dusting of hair-

"Take it off," he said, "I want to see you."

Anders drew his shirt over his head with shaking hands, tossing it to the side, and Fenris tugged the man to his feet, pulling him towards the bed.  "Trousers and smalls," he ordered, undoing the first few toggles of his own tunic before drawing it over his head, peeling off his breeches.  The mage let out a small sound when he realized Fenris wore no smalls.

Fenris pushed the man back on the bed and crawled over him, breathing in the scent of elfroot, spindleweed and musk, sliding a hand over that sprinkling of hair on the man's chest, and yes, it was golden-red.  Fenris enjoyed the sight of his own hand, dark skin against the mage's milky white, and he bent to taste the mage's skin, kissing and nipping his way up Anders' chest.

"Your spirit likes lyrium?" he rumbled, and Anders replied breathlessly, "Yes."

"Does he like the lyrium in my skin, then?" Fenris asked, and Anders moaned as Fenris mouthed his shoulder, moving in to nip at the mage's neck.

"Maker, yes," Anders gasped.

"Good," Fenris replied, before moving to claim the mage's mouth with his own.

*****************************************************************

Anders stroked his hands down the elf's back, still not quite able to believe that he was here, in Fenris' bed, that Fenris _wanted_ him here, but something between them had changed irrevocably in the past few weeks, and drowning in the feel of warm skin, the scent of wine, the faint tang of lyrium and leather that was Fenris, he simply accepted, celebrated these moments, touches of mouth and tongue and hands, the warm press of the elf's body, smooth, silky skin, the heat of the elf's length hard against his hip, his own answering hardness firm between their bodies.

When the elf reached down to stroke him, he let out a strangled gasp of pleasure, head falling back as the elf plundered him, nipping and suckling at his neck.

"Anders," came that sinful voice, strained with passion, and Anders moaned at the sound of it, thrusting into that delicious hand.  "I would be inside you."

"Maker, _yes_ ," he breathed.

"It would require- _malum_ , mage, hold still," Fenris commanded, and Anders stilled underneath him, panting.

"Slick," the elf finished, and Anders groaned at the thought, wet, slick fingers, then cock, inside him, filling him.  "Elfroot potion, belt," he managed to get out, and the elf rose gracefully off him, padding silently to fumble with his coat.

Moments later he was back, vial open, the smell of elfroot filling the air, and when one finger eased inside him, quickly joined by a second, he fought not to finish then and there, pressing back against those wicked, wonderful fingers.  When fingers were replaced with a larger, slick hardness, Anders nearly sobbed as the elf pushed slowly, gradually inside.  It had been so long, _Maker_ , so long, and this sinfully beautiful elf was inside him-

Fenris claimed his mouth, moving faster, and Anders gripped his buttocks, urging him on, the friction on his own cock between their pressed bodies wringing increasingly desperate sounds from him, the elf's thrusting rougher, harder, and _Oh, Maker_ , he was going to come-

Anders cried out as his orgasm washed over him, spilling his seed between the two of them, tightening around that desperately thrusting cock, and suddenly the elf went rigid, a deep, rasping cry torn from him as he followed, thrusting once, twice, as deep as he could, body shaking with release.

Anders clung to him, smoothing hands over the elf's back as they relaxed, gradually disengaging, and Fenris rolled to the side, one arm possessively around the mage's waist.

Anders fell asleep to the feeling of the elf next to him, the faint song of lyrium, the warmth and comfort of release washing over him.

Fenris took a while longer to fall asleep, enjoying the scent of elfroot, spindleweed, and musk, rubbing his hand softly over smooth, warm skin, enjoying the faint throb of the mage's heartbeat next to his own.

And in the morning, when he woke to find the mage next to him, still asleep, he ran a hand gently through red-gold locks, the rising sun glinting off the mage's hair like liquid light pouring through dusty glass bottles.  When Anders moved his head a little closer, mumbling incoherently in his sleep, Fenris tucked the mage's head under his chin and closed his eyes.


End file.
